


The Last Targaryens

by SilverDust09



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, a game of thrones - Fandom
Genre: And most of all: fuck Tyrion and Varys, F/M, Fix-It, Fuck Cersei, Fuck D and D, Fuck Sansa, Fuck nihilism, Fuck subverted tropes, Fuck the Iron Throne, Fuck the Lords of the North, One-Shot, fuck everyone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-02-27 11:20:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18737989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverDust09/pseuds/SilverDust09
Summary: How I wanted their conversation in ep 4 to go down.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> “When someone seeks," said Siddhartha, "then it easily happens that his eyes see only the thing that he seeks, and he is able to find nothing, to take in nothing because he always thinks only about the thing he is seeking, because he has one goal, because he is obsessed with his goal. Seeking means: having a goal. But finding means: being free, being open, having no goal.”   
> ― Herman Hesse, Siddhartha

**Daenerys**

Jon Snow looked drunk, very drunk. She could it see from the way he was rubbing his temples and the way he was swaying like the first time he had flown a dragon. He had done the same what many a man had done tonight. He had tried to drown away his sorrow with pain and wine.

Back then, he had still been Jon Snow, the bastard of Eddard Stark, a man her brother had called one of the usurper dogs. For a long time, she had thought the same way about this Eddard Stark. Until she had learned the horrible truth from Ser Barristan’s mouth.

Thus, she had learned that her father had been a madman.

Thus, all of Viserys lies had been exposed in one swoop and even so she he continued with her quest for the crown when her heart had longed for peace and quiet: her home in Braavos with the Red Door and the lemon tree. Old Ser William and even Viserys. Not the cruel one who had sold her to Khal Drogo, but the brother that had painted pictures into her head about mighty dragons and brave knights. The brother that had protected her from the usurper’s swords and had promised her a home.

_All gone_ , she reminded herself. _Ghosts and memories, nothing more._

And yet she still recalled the vivid dreams that had come to her when she was roaming through the desert, bleeding and burned from the encounter in Daznak’s Pit.

It had been the day she had tamed Drogon and the day her second husband had betrayed her. Hizdahr the Lord of the tepid kisses had never known how she had returned with a horde of Dothraki to place the head of every single slave master on the Great Plaza of Meereen. The first time she had spoken justice over the masters she had balked after seeing their suffering, but after her return she had shown them no mercy.

_Dragon’s plant not trees_ , she had reminded herself again and again as her travel brought her from Slaver’s Bay to Volantis and then to Pentos, before finally returning to the “home” Viserys had always been talking about: Westeros.

And yet Westeros had not become a home to her. Dragonstone, the place she had been born at, had felt as strange to her as the Dothraki Sea and Slaver’s Bay.

Winterfell hadn’t proved any better. Its people were cold and bitter as their lands. When she had left Meereen she had promised the Unsullied and the Dothraki a promising future, but instead she had led them to their death at the hand of ice monsters.

By now she had shed so much blood that she had grown tired of it’s metallic and empty taste.

She had washed herself more than once since the battle, but the smell was still there, clinging to every fiber of her body. At times, she wanted to crawl upon her dragon and fly far way and at other times she wanted to weep.

_You are the blood of the dragon_ , Viserys would have shouted at her and slapped her. _The blood of the dragon does not weep._

Oh, that proud brother of hers had been so proud of their legacy, but Daenerys was growing sick of it. The name Targaryen had brought her nothing but pain.

It had stolen her childhood from her and now it had stolen Jon Snow from her.

It was a damn curse, that name of hers.

And yet all her life she had tried to proof herself worthy of that name. At first, she had tried to please Viserys and after his death she had tried to regain her family’s legacy, the last piece of them that had been left to her.

It had been her duty as the last Targaryen.

Yet that was no longer true, for Jon Snow wasn’t just a bastard from the North, but her brother’s son.

_Trueborn_ , if the Tarly boy’s words proved true.

What was her duty now? What was her purpose? Had all been a lie?

And even now as her gaze sought Jon Snow’s she didn’t know what to make of him. He had no sign of a Targaryen about him. His face was long, his hair was brown and his eyes were dark grey, though at times they changed to an indigo color that might have belonged to her brother Rhaegar or at least the little she remembered of him in her vision from the House of the Undying.

It was no lie, so much was true. Jon wouldn’t lie to her about such a matter.

It made her wish that Ser Barristan was here. He would have known how to help her sort out her conflicting thoughts.

Yet he like all the others he had been taken from her. Like her father, mother, brothers, Viserion, Ser Jorah and many more.

Only Jon Snow and her were left now, the Last Targaryens.

She would have to make the best out of it.

She swallowed hard and forced a smile over her lips.

“You are drunk?” she asked him. It was a pointless question given his current state, but she had found no better way to break the silence.

Jon Snow gave her a weary smile as he clumsily pulled himself to his feet, trying desperately so to appear sober.

“No…maybe a little,” he admitted instead and smiled again while she closed the door behind her. This was a warmer smile, less tired than the last one.

Dany tried to return the smile and stepped closer.

Yet even after she had straightened herself, she was desperately trying to find the right words.

Thus, Jon Snow came to rescue, though he didn’t address the topic they needed to talk about.

“I didn’t know Ser Jorah well,” he said and squirmed under her gaze or perhaps that was only the effect of the wine speaking. “But I know this…if he could have chosen a way to die it would have been protecting you.”

It was a truth she couldn’t deny. She had loved Jorah, though not the way he had wanted it.

He had kissed her once, when she was still half a child, but she had rejected him and later she had sent him into exile.

Then, he had returned to her, but nothing had ever been the same. She had forgiven him, but trust was not something she had been unable to believe him after his betrayal.

And now he had died for her and she felt regret for not trusting him.

Another one of her many failures.

“He loved me,” she acknowledged the truth to Jon Snow, who shrugged is shoulders as if to say ‘It was quite obvious for all to see’.

“But I didn’t love him back, not like the way he wanted,” she admitted and felt the guilt disperse, replaced with longing and sadness as she drew closer towards Jon Snow. She had seen him before she had met him, in her dreams and every time she had asked Jhiqui to keep her company. Her lover had been a man with comely face hidden away by the shadows and this man she had found in the supposed bastard of Eddard Stark. “Not the way I love you…” she trailed off, her voice trembling.

Showing weakness was not something she had allowed herself for long time, but here she was. That stupid little girl Viserys had liked to kick until she was bloody. The weeping little girl Drogo had raped every night. The little girl Hizdahr had fooled to usurp her position. All of them had died while she had lived. She had thought that she had left all this behind her, but that was another lie she had made up.

Not looking back hadn’t helped. It was just running away. To face the future she mustn’t run away from the truth.

And the truth was, she was still the little girl and no dragon or bloody crown would ever change that.

And mayhaps that was good so. Mayhaps her quest for the crown was another delusion. Mayhaps she had been returned back to nothing to see the emptiness of it all.

The crown was not her home. The crown wouldn’t bring back Viserion or Rhaego either. The crown would never be able to satisfy the longing in her heart, the long that had sought to suppress to fulfil her duty.

_Another lie_ , she realized as she met Jon’s intense gaze, his eyes as black as obsidian. It was a soft gaze, the one she remembered from their time at the ship. It filled her with warmth she had thought lost, taken away by the icy winds of the north.

He didn’t answer as he took her hands in his, pulling her closer. She had never been particularly tall and neither was Jon Snow. Seeing him this close, she recalled how young he was. Ten and seven, a man grown, but still half a boy.

He had been a bastard, then a man of the Night’s Watch and later a King.

She had also been many things and the carrier of many titles. Khaleesi. Mother of Dragons. The Breaker of Chains.

Empty titles to Jon Snow’s sisters and the bitter men of the north.

And yet she couldn’t bring herself to hate Jon Snow for his false promise.

_They will see you for what you are_ , he had told her, but she knew that he hadn’t tried to deceive her. Like her he had believed in the words of “blood and family” but even those were nothing more than empty words.

Family was not formed by blood. Her Mad Father hadn’t been her family and nor had been her brother Viserys once he had sold her like a slave. No, her family had been the Dothraki, Ser Jorah, Missandei, Greyworm, Jhiqui, Irri, Doreah, her children, Rhaego, and all the other people she had grown to love. Jon was among them, but not because he had been seeded by her brother, but because he had shown her trust when others had condemned her as “a foreign whore”.

And why should she give that up for a crown?

It was so bloody ridiculous and made her want to laugh and weep at the same time.

“You are crying,” Jon remarked, his voice laced with guilt and his hand brushing over her cheek. “Is it because of Ser Jorah?”

She leaned in, but brushed her tears away.

“You never said it back,” she replied almost accusingly. She couldn’t help it. “You never said that you love me…”

He looked taken back by her words, his long face growing incredibly pale and serious.

She saw now the startling resemblance between him and his sister, the cold-eyed girl that had plunged her Valyrian blade into the Night’s King’s heart after he had killed Ser Jorah, had nearly impaled Ser Jaime and had felled Jon as if they had been nothing but mere children. It had been pure luck and the long-needed final of a four-day-long siege. It had also cost the girl’s life. Her blood had turned cold within the blink of a moment and she had suffocated to death like a fish pulled out of the water. It had been a grizzly sight to behold.

It was Beric who had given his life and Lady Melisandre who had spoken the prayers in the language of Ancient Valyria.

And the god’s prayers had been answered. Arya Stark had returned, but ever since she was even colder and had spent more time with Jon Snow’s wolf than with the rest of her family.

_She wants to leave and find Nymeria_ , Brandon Stark had told her in his ever solemn and dead voice. _She longs to retrieve that lost part of her…like myself._

She hadn’t known what to make of his words, but now she understood.

The little girl she had once been, she had discarded for the queen she needed to be.

_The time for self-denial is over_ , she decided and lifted her hand, to search Jon Snow’s face.

“Tell me…” she demanded to know. At least that he owed her. “Do I disgust you?”

His mouth opened and closed, the grip of his hand growing ever tighter on her shoulder blade as he sucked in a deep breath.

“No,” he assured her and shook his head. “That’s not that…I thought you hated me.”

Dany felt liked slapped. That was the last answer she expected to hear from his lips. “Hate you? Why would I hate you?”

“Because I stand in your way to the crown,” he replied, his voice laced with suppressed anger. “Isn’t that so?”

It was true. It had been her initial thought, but it had been all so sudden and she had had so little time to contemplate everything properly.

“I don’t hate you,” she assured him quickly and smiled, all tension leaving her body at once. He had been so cold to her and now she finally understood why. _He was like me. He needed time_. “It was just so much to take in…and you chose a really bad moment to drop that truth on me.”

Surprisingly, he chuckled. It was a rare thing, though more than once she had heard him make a jape, though they were often far from jolly, but sharp like Valyrian steel.

“I suppose,” he admitted and searched her gaze. “But what you said to me…it hurt me. Do you really think I care for this bloody crown? I never did and yet it was the first thing you spoke about. I didn’t expect that…I thought you knew me better than that.”

It was true, but she had been overwhelmed. She as much right to these feelings as him.

“I do know you,” she said softly and brushed her hand through his hair. She wanted to forget about this nonsense, to wipe away the taste of blood from her mouth. It had been too long she had known peace of mind. “And I have decided that the crown is no longer the most important thing in my life. It had once been so that I believed it my utmost duty to retake the crown, but it is not worth all the sacrifice. I will still kill Cersei, I owe so much to my allies, but once all said is done, I shall honor my promise to Tyrion and “break the wheel”. The Targaryen dynasty has not ruled over the Seven Kingdoms from the beginning of time and there is no rule that says it has to be like this forever. Everything is impermanent. Power. People. Titles. At the end of our way we all end up the same way…on a pyre or a quickly-dug grave. The war against the White Walkers has shown me that. I do not wish to waste the rest of my days for as struggle that won’t make me happy…,” she had bared her heart out in a squall of words and tears running down her cheeks, her fingernails digging into his tunic, but last her words had failed her.

Then, she had fallen silent and had averted her gaze.

“You don’t have to give up your dreams and hopes for me,” Jon Snow replied, his voice barely above a whisper, as he caressed her cheek. “You have my full support to take the crown, but in exchange you must grand me something in return. The truth about myself. I have lived my entire life a s Eddard Stark’s bastard, a stain on Lord Stark’s white vest. I left for the Night’s Watch, because I had no home in these halls and because I hoped to remove this shame, I caused my father’s family. When I heard the truth…first I was angry at Sam, then at Lord Eddard and then I felt utter relief. I was loved and wanted, no longer a bastard fathered on a tavern wench. I do not care about the crown, but about the truth. I deserve this truth about myself just as much as you deserve the crown you have toiled for all these years. And that is what I want from you…that I can go out there and be the person I was always meant to be. A Stark and a Targaryen. The son of Lyanna Stark, my mother, who loved me until she bled to death on her birthing bed and Rhaegar Targaryen, this foolish man, who loved my mother so much that he made the Seven Kingdoms bleed. I have never asked for anything in my life, but this I want…the truth about myself.”

Then, he paused and exhaled deeply, his dark eyes glassy as he brushed his thumb over her lower lip.

She had listened in stunned silence. Jon Snow had never spoken with so much favor and yet it was true. He had never demanded her armies or her help. He had humbly asked for them and she had granted his wish after seeing the threat with her own eyes. In the end he had bent the knee and she had been happy for it, though all that had turned to ash in her mouth when she came north.

“Will you grant it?” he asked in a hopeful voice.

“You still gave me no answer to my other question,” she reminded him and pushed his hand away. Then she kissed him, gently and slowly.

He didn’t back away at first, but did so after she had pressed herself flush against him.

He was usually not shy. Serious and sometimes broody, but never shy.

His Wildling lover had trained him well or so his red-haired Wildling friend had claimed.

“Do you really need an answer for that?” he asked in return, not granting her what she desired. Instead he kissed her deeply, and started to pull on the bindings of her wool dress. It was better than mere words and her hands slipped beneath his tunic, pulling impatiently.

He seemed to recognize her need and a moment later he let go of her lips and helped her pulled off his tunic. She responded quickly and pulled off her gown, leaving her only dressed in her smallclothes. She felt cold, despite the fire in the hearth, but her fast-beating heart allowed her to brush away this needless discomfort.

Instead she kissed him again, helping him to discard his breeches. Along the way he nearly stumbled as he tried to pull off his boots. The laughter stole the breath from her, but that was nothing compared to his kisses.

He ravished her like his life depended on it, with teeth and tongue, a dragon and a wolf. A dragonwolf.

It was such a ridiculous notion, but then she also had drowned three cups.

Not long after, they were ride of their remaining clothes and stumbled to the bed as naked as their namedays.

Then, they were kissing again, slower and without the same heat as before, without the pressure to go anywhere. He tasted of the wine and cakes they had served, rare delicacies in the north or so Jon had told her.

Outside she heard the song of the drunken men, the songs booming voices of the Wildlings and the softer voices of the Northmen mixing and swelling to a chaotic tune. She didn’t know the song nor the words. It must be sung in the Old Tongue, the language of the Wildlings or Free Folk as they preferred to be called.

“It is warm here,” she noticed suddenly. A handful of heartbeats ago she had felt cold and empty.

“I don’t think we need furs,” she added with a smile and brushed them aside with her naked foot.

Jon Snow laughed and grabbed her foot, pulling. She giggled and tried to wiggle free, but he was much stronger than her.

Assured of his actions, he pulled her legs apart and kissed his way up and down between her thighs.

His mouth was hot, almost scalding. It reminded her of Drogon’s skin these kisses were even better than the ones before. She pulled on his hair, gently and then a bit stronger. It was meant to keep herself in place, to not lose herself to the sensation. She didn’t wish to join the song of the Free Folk and sucked on her gum. Yet she was ever burning, like dried embers set alight by her children’s flames. Thus, she bit into her hand, burning ever burning…

Still shaking from the previous rapture, she watched him as he lay down beside her, his hand brushing over her cheek, her neck, her shoulders, her breasts, her navel, her sides and all down her legs.

She watched him quietly, her gaze taking in his obvious desire, his scars and his disheveled hair and at last his burned hand.

Dany herself had burns on her arms and legs, given to her by Drogon’s pain and rage on the day Hizdahr had betrayed her.

“What are you waiting for?” she teased him as she turned to her side and rolled to nestle against him.

“I want to hear your answer first,” Jon Snow replied quietly and watched her intently. “I just gave you my answer…not in words, but deeds.”

“I grant it,” she replied and chuckled.

He smiled. A full and true smile, as he melded their bodies together, meant to start a different dance. A dance between two dragons? Or perhaps a dragon and a wolf? No, that didn’t sound right. A dragon and a dragonwolf, no matter how silly that sounded.

Not that she cared, her mind was slowly drifting away as a fresh song was played up, faster and heartier than the one before. It was a song, sad and happy at once. Again, the booming echoes of the Free Folk mixed with the quiet murmur of the Northmen, like the waves and wind crushing against the shore.

“Dany,” he gasped, his voice deep and lost. She held him close as they both lost themselves to frantic motions and the maddening dance of pleasure, his head buried in her shoulder.

When she came back to herself, she felt the trickle of his breath on her cheek and the pull of his hand on her shoulder, drawing her ever closer into his embrace.

“You know…I think I have a solution for our problem,” he chuckled and kissed her neck. “Neither Sansa or Tyrion, as clever as they claim to be, ever brought it up, but Ser Davos suggested it to me tonight. He doesn’t know the truth, but even so…he is wiser then most men. I have never been good with words…but we should seek out a weirwood tree or any tree.”

Dany raised her head and furrowed her brows.

“A tree?”

“I do not…,” she trailed off and Jon grabbed her arm, squeezing it lightly.

“That is the northern way of proposing marriage…,” he explained quickly and brushed his hair out of his face.

He looked slightly flustered and fearful as if she would outrightly refuse him.

“I cannot have children,” she was about to protest, but he silenced her with a wave of his hand.

“You don’t know that and I don’t care.”

“You should care…,” she began, but Jon cut her off in an almost fevered tone.

“Oh, fuck that. All my life I did what others told me to do. Fuck Sansa. Fuck Tyrion. Fuck the Lords of the North. Fuck duty. I can no longer bear to hear it.”

“And fuck Cersei,” Dany added cheerfully as she leaned forward to place a kiss on his lips. “You forgot the most important person of all.”

“Fuck her too,” Jon replied playfully, but stopped before his lips brushed over hers. “Is that a yes?”

She gave no answer and kissed him.

Acts speak louder than word. So much she had learned by now.

…


	2. To see the song to an end...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In any age, in any society, when people are small, they look up at the stars and stretch out their hands as if to grasp them. Then at last,they learn that their own arms aren't long enough to reach the stars. They call that becoming an adult. But I don't think so. Without fail, those stars will be in this hand!
> 
> Reinhard von Lohengramm, Legend oft he Galactic Heroes

Dany watched as the soft moonlight fell through the painted windows, casting a silver glimmer upon her babe’s sleeping face. Rhaena had been born a moon ago, after a storm had ravaged the craggy coast of Lys.

For days, they hadn’t seen a single sign of Drogon and Rhaegal and she had feared that they had been harmed. A moon ago they had finally returned

Dany herself had been born during a summer storm that had ravaged her father’s fleet, which had earned her the name Stormborn. It was a silly name in hinsight, like so many she had taken.

Now she was just Dany while the names Stark, Lannister, Targaryen and Baratheon had long lost their meaning. They had been stokes on a wheel she had crushed with fire and blood when she had attacked King’s Landing scarce five years ago. As expected, Cersei Lannister the Mad Lioness had preferred to burn the entire city to the ground than to surrender. With the ringing of bells the city had fallen to the Mad King’s last stashes of wildfire, filling the air with a chilly silence that had made everyone’s blood freeze.

Dany felt sick when she thought about what had been left of the city: nothing but blackened walls and sizzling bones.

 _Let him be King over bones and cooked meat_ , she had recalled her mad father’s words from the House of the Undying and had left the city on the same day, casting away both her claim and crown, after melting down the Iron Throne in one last act of anguish and defiance.

Thus, the wheel Aegon the Conqueror had imposed on Westeros had been broken, but even so, she doubted the peace would ever come. Humans were not meant for peace, but for struggle. They were creatures of unrest and ambitions. Not even the breaking apart of the Seven Kingdoms would ever change that…

“Sleep now,” she told the babe and brushed her hand over the warm dragon egg placed next to her girl’s head.

Rhaena was a puff-face thing with dark hair and violet eyes, that never failed to make her smile, when she scrunched up her face in displeasure. Her smiles were as rare as Jon’s, but that was to be expected. A child born during a storm was not meant to fill the world with sunshine and laughter, but Dany didn't love her any less.

She placed one last kiss on her head, before stepping out into the gardens. First they had wanted to go to Braavos, but Dany had feared for her dragons and thus she and Jon had returned to Lys, a place that had once served as refuge for their forebearers.

It was a fitting place, she found, though their home was small and the company sparse. Yet the painted red door made her feel as if she was back in Braavos, though Viserys, Ser William and so many others were missing.

Thinking about it made her angry and sad.

Ser Jorah had fallen to the hands of the Night King. Lord Varys had been torn apart from the weights in the Crypts of Winterfell. Tyrion and Jaime Lannister had both perished in the wildfire with thousands of others. Missandei had left in company of Greyworm to return to Naath. The last remaining Dothraki had joined to live with the Wildlings. Arya Stark had left to travel the world in company of her smith. Brandon Stark had taken residence at the Island of Faces, where he watched over the Last Children of the Forest and kept their memories alive for generations to come. Brienne of Tarth had travelled North to join the Wildlings. Samwell Tarly and Gilly had returned to Hornhill to raise their children. Ser Davos had returned to his wife and remaining sons and Sansa Stark, well she finally had her greatest wish: Winterfell or what was left of it, a ruin of bones and starving children, who were now pushing her to consider a marriage allegiance with the Vale, where the sickly Lord Robin still ruled under the ever aging Lord Royce. Dany had met the hysteric boy only once, but she found it was a match made him heaven. Those two truly deserved each other…

“You are smiling,” Jon’s voice snapped her back to the present. He was seated upon the small garden wall, overseen stormy sea and the craggy cliffs on which Drogon and Rhaegal had built their lair. “What are you thinking about?”

Ghost was also there, lying sprawled on the ground and giving an occasional whine when their oldest child Aemon was pulling on his tail.

Aemon was barely three and had been born with the grace and silver hair of their forebearers. Only his eyes had something of the north in them, as they were grey like flint at sometimes and purple at others.

“Nothing,” she replied and noticed the letter spread over his legs. “What did Sam write? Is it about his book? What did he call it again?”

Jon laughed and put the parchment back into the vest of his cloak.

“Aye, it’s about the book…the Song of Ice and Fire.”

Dany nodded her head and watched as Aemon received another unhappy growl from Ghost, though she was sure he would never do him any harm.

“Leave him be, sweetling,” she chided him softly and offered her hand to him. “Ghost is tired.”

“I want to ride,” he declared stubbornly as ever, but didn’t refuse when Dany picked him up.

“Ghost is no dragon,” Jon explained with a loop-sided smile, but received only a deep frown from Aemon.

“Then I want to fly a dragon,” Aemon counted stubbornly and pointed at the sky, where Rhaegal and Drogon had changed to shifting shadows drifting in a sea of stars.

“Look!” Jon exclaimed suddenly and pointed at the sky. “A star…a bleeding star.”

Dany gasped in surprise as her eyes darted to the bleeding star soaring over the sky.

Aemon and the dragons seemed equally fascinated by the spectacle. As her boy stretched his hands towards the star, as if to catch him, Rhaegal and Drogon roared, filling the world with the song of dragons.

It was like that night, many years ago, when they had been birthed from a single burning pyre in the Dothraki Sea. Mayhaps it was only a coincidence, but perhaps it was meant to herald the return of dragons…

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote is as of now from one of my favourite characters ever, Reinhard von Lohengramm, one of the main characters of the 110-episode long OVA series inspired by the ten-novel-long series by Yoshiki Tanaka. Like Dany he is a man who grew up in abusive household and only his older sister to care for him, who was taken away by the Emperor as his personal sex slave. Like Dany he is an idealist, but also a Conqueror and a man who did ruthless things to accomplish his highest goals, but who also brought a positive change to the Empire, though he did it with blood and the loss of his loved ones. Going by the way he was constantly protrayed I thought he would snap and become a tyrant, but he never did. Instead he became just colder and colder and eventually perished like a phoenix, but left his Empire in good hands and brought humanity peace after a 150 year long war.
> 
> If the show ending is really the ending George intended then it is nihilistic, but not at all bittersweet
> 
> Legend of the Galactic Heros is what GoT should have been. An intelligent political war-drama that portrays the struggels of human society and war. This show killed off more characters than GoT in its entire run, but without silly shock moments, wrote few, but actually likeable female characters (at least I think so) and gave me a storyline about two sides who were equally grey in their motivations and at last...actually managed to give me a bittersweet ending.
> 
> I would show this particular show to D and D for educational purpose to show them what writers can do who love a novel series and do their best to adapt it with their heart and soul...
> 
> Sadly, D and D are no Ishiguro and co, but just average writers who I hope will not be rewarded for their lack of effort.
> 
> That said, both the abilities of the cast, the directors, the music composers, the costume designers were all for nothing because two fools weren't willing enough to allow other writers to finish the series.
> 
> I doubt Cogman or any of the other writers would have given us a perfect ending, but at least it would have made sense...

**Author's Note:**

> The quote above applies to all people in Got. They are all to focused on their goals to see the truth like many people are.
> 
> The real reason I hated Arya killing the Night King was that by reducing the Others to a bunch of unimportant clowns they stole away the wonderful massage of the books, namely that the Iron Throne means nothing against death and destruction. I always saw the Others as a representation of death. Death is something we all must face from the lowest begger to the fucking President of the United states. We all end up in a coffin one day and that is a very humbling thought to me. All the things we desire, all the people we know and love, all the petty dreams we have, mean nothing against that. It is a very nihilistic view, but also very freeing if you think about it. Not that I like Nihilism. I think the very essence of these idea has become far too ingrained in our society. Nothing is of worth anymore, apart from becoming powerful and rich and famous and all that bullshit. But the great question is? Does it make you happy?
> 
> I have the same view of the Iron Throne. I don't think anyone is entitled to it. Neither Daenerys, nor Jon, nor Stannis, nor Cersei. It is an illusion, a trick, a shadow. Nothing more. It is also a symbol of corruption and death. So many people died for this chair. If Daenerys were to simply sweep in and take the throne and rule happily ever after there would be no lesson to be learned from this story. The thing is, even if Daenerys is a fair and wise ruler, nobody can make sure that her successor is better.
> 
> That is why I support the Red Door Ending over the the Dany rules with Jon happily ever after as King and Queen like in the old times.
> 
> Therefore,I left it open for interpretation in this story whether Daenerys will really take the crown or not.
> 
> That said. The show writers managed to ruin every single show character for me, Daenerys included. When she told Jon he has no right to tell anyone about his birth because he stands in the way of her precious throne I felt honestly the first time disgusted. Jon has every right to express his feelings just as Daenerys does. How about forgetting about your stupid throne for one moment and see the truth.
> 
> This throne is not worth giving up the people you love. Power is never worth it. I can speak from experience. For a very long time I focused on a single goal and started to neglect my family, my friends and my health. I only cared about this goal and I did achieve it one day. Afterwards I felt empty and lost. I didn't know what to do with myself anymore. All the reward I craved for was not what I expected, because I didn't have people to share my happiness with.
> 
> Daenerys will end up the same way and Cersei as well.
> 
> What happend to Missandei and all the others who died for the Iron Throne is a result of that. Daenerys has every right to be angry and she certainly isn't mad for wanting revenge. That is human. Everybody would react that way, but if she kills innocent people I will condemn that, no matter how good her reasons are.
> 
> Killing the Tarlys was fair. They were traitors. Killing the slavers I can understand. They all deserve to rot in hell, but killing innocent people will not sit well with me.
> 
> Not that I blame her really, because all of this is only a result of forced writing and cheap shock values.
> 
> I hope George watches well how they raped his storyline beyond recognition.
> 
> And at last Fuck you D and D for ruining an interesting story.


End file.
